“Well, I don’t know about that.  Though it’s very likely, very likely,” hurriedly.  McCall had no relish for argument about it.  He was more secure of his intellect in the matter of peaches than inner lights.  Cowed and awed as he could have been by no body of men, he followed Bluhm up a dirty flight of stairs into the assemblage of Superior Women.  The office was by nature a chamber with gaudy wall-paper of bouquets and wreaths.  Viewed as an office, it was well enough, but in the aesthetic, light of a Holy Ground of Ideas it needed sweeping.  The paper, too, hung in flaps from the damp walls:  dusty files of newspapers, an empty bird-cage, old boots, a case of medical books, a pair of dilapidated trousers filled up one side of the room.  A pot of clove-pinks in the window struggled to drown with spicy fragrance the odor of stale tobacco smoke.  There was a hempen carpet, inch deep with mud and dust, on the floor.  Seated round an empty fireplace, on cane chairs and in solemn circle, were about forty followers of the Inner Light.  McCall perceived Maria near the window, the dusky twilight bringing out with fine effect her delicate, beautiful face.  He turned quickly to the others, looking for the popular type of the Advanced Female, in loose sacque and men’s trousers, with bonnet a-top, hair cut short, sharp nose and sharper voice.  She was not there.  A third of the women were Quakers, with their calm, benign faces for the most part framed by white hair—­women who, having fought successfully against slavery, when that victory was won had taken up arms against the oppressors of women with devout and faithful purpose.  The rest McCall declared to himself to be “rather a good-looking lot—­women who had,” he guessed shrewdly, “been in lack of either enough to eat or somebody to love in the world, and who fancied the ballot-box would bring them an equivalent for a husband or market-money.”

A little dish-faced woman in rusty black, and with whitish curls surmounted by a faded blue velvet bonnet laid flat on top of her head, had the floor:  “Mr. Chairman—­I mean Miss Chairman—­the object of our meeting this evening is, Shall marriage in the Consolidated Republic—­”

“I object!” Herr Bluhm sprang to his feet, wrapping a short mantle like a Roman toga across his chest, and wearing a portentous frown upon his brow, “There is business of the last meeting which is not finished.  Shall the thanks of this club be presented to the owners of the Berrytown street-cars for free passes therein?  That is the topic for consideration.  I move that a vote of thanks be passed;” and he sat down gloomily.

“I do not second that motion.”  A tall woman, with the magisterial sweep of shawl and wave of the arm of a cheap boarding-house keeper, rose.  “I detect a subtle purpose in that offer.  There is a rat behind that arras.  There is a prejudice against us in the legislature, and the car company wish no mention of Woman Suffrage to be made in Berrytown until their new charter is granted.  Are we so cheaply bought?—­bribed by a dead-head ticket!”